Gunsmoke and Ocotillo
by Rat-chan
Summary: Wild West AU. Eames is after the bounty on Cobb's head, but Arthur has decided to stand between them. What will this mean for the tenuous relationship that's been growing between Eames and Arthur? Note: "adventure" & "friendship" genres apply just as well
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: I own no part of Inception and no part of this story makes me any money.

**Notes**: Guns referenced on wikipedia. Guns featured here are the Colt Peacemaker and the Smith and Wesson Schofield.  
Also, please be aware that this is written in the spirit of self-indulgent fun and only "published" with the idea that a few other people might enjoy it.

* * *

Eames stared down his Peacemaker's seven inch barrel at Arthur, who stood motionless before him in the nearly empty saloon. The fingers of the other man's hand danced in the air, apparently itching to reach for the Schofield at his hip.

"I wouldn't try it, darling," he drawled, enjoying the infinitesimal twitch of that dark brow at the endearment, despite their situation. "I know you're a fast draw, but I've already got your heart in my sights." The double meaning might actually have drawn a smile from the taciturn point man in better days. Today, it got him stony silence. "Where's Cobb?" he asked when the silence between them grew brittle as salt flats.

"Eames," Arthur finally spoke as a hint of expression crept into his eyes. "You know Cobb. You know he'd never hurt Mal, let alone kill her."

"That's not my concern. He's got a price on his head and I'm a bounty hunter. _That_ is my concern." That earned him a glare with more spines than a saguaro. "I don't want to hurt you to get to him, but..."

"He's your friend, Eames."

"No one's got friends in the Wild West, Arthur. Just a list of people who aren't enemies."

"And are you really prepared to cross me off that list? You'll regret it."

_I already do... _"Trust me, I'm the one you want taking Cobb in. When a bounty is 'dead or alive,' not many of us aim for the latter."

"_No one_ is taking him in. Least of all, _you_!" As Arthur half-shouted the last word, he jammed a booted foot down onto the floor, pushing down on the end of a long floorboard. It was loose, apparently, and the other end whipped up and hit Eames' gun hand, sending his Colt flying. Keeping his eyes on the other man as best he could, the bounty hunter dived for his fallen weapon. By the time he had it back in hand, though, Arthur had already drawn. The Smith and Wesson glittered in a dusty shaft of sunlight, in deadly harmony with the glimmer in the point man's eyes.

_Christ, he's breathtaking. _Looking up at Arthur from the floor, Eames could fully appreciate the elegant length of his limbs and the enticing contrast of grace and danger in his movement as he backed towards the door.

"You wouldn't shoot me," he told the other man, only half knowing what he was saying.

"Not to kill," was the flat reply as Arthur reached the door.

"I'll be seeing you, Arthur. And soon."

"You might see my back as I ride away from you. Again."

"My favorite view, darling," he responded with a wink.

Arthur did smile then: a small, sad curve of his lips with as much regret as humor and anticipation. "Adios," he whispered, slipping quickly and smoothly out the door. Eames jumped up to follow him, but, of course, he'd already disappeared, leaving the bounty hunter with only an image of that last smile, bittersweet as sarsasparilla.

_I know how you feel. _With quarry like Arthur and Cobb, the chase would be an exhilarating challenge. The thought of Arthur as quick-witted mouse to his cunning cat was far from displeasing.

But that didn't stop uneasiness from dancing in his gut to the fiddle of "can we go back after this?"

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he whispered the apology he wasn't prepared to give in person, "but I _have to_ be the one to bring Cobb in."

He looked around, searching for signs of the departed man. A scuff on the hitching post in front of the saloon caught his eye. He looked up. The saloon's sign was more crooked than it had been when he'd gone in. Eames dashed back into the saloon and out the back door, not caring that he'd be too late to catch even Arthur's shadow.

He did catch the deep imprint of booted feet in the mud from where the other man had jumped down from the roof and the tracks of the horse he'd had waiting there. Eames crouched down and traced the outline of a horseshoe in the dirt as he gazed in the direction the horse had gone.

"Hasta mañana," he belatedly replied to Arthur's farewell. _See you tomorrow._

~to be continued~

* * *

*A saguaro is a type of cactus. You know, the usually triple topped one that is an image of the American Southwest.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes**: OK. First chapter. Not much action and almost no Arthur/Eames, but it should get a lot of the requisite (if I'm to follow the movie plot) Cobb/Mal angst out of the way. And I hope it has some decent Arthur&Cobb friendship, too.

* * *

Cobb gave the fire a few nervous pokes with a long stick - not because it needed the attention, but because he did. There was a list about a quarter mile long of the things he hated about his life on the run. Waiting patiently in camp while Arthur went into town was even higher than usual on the list right then. It made him feel worse than useless, like a sand-filled saddlebag.

_He's late_. Cobb gave the fire a more savage jab, cursing as the wood collapsed in on itself. He grabbed a second stick and maneuvered the logs back into place before the fire had a chance to suffocate. _Can't even do camp duty properly anymore_.

With a harsh sigh of self-disgust, he threw the sticks down by the fire and leaned back on his saddlebags to gaze at the stars. Until Arthur came back with their provisions, there was nothing more useful to do. _It's a beautiful night_. There was no feeling attached to the thought. It was just an observation, like "there's a coyote about a mile from here" or "the ocotillo is in bloom" or "Arthur is late."

_Damn_. Back to pointless worry? That wouldn't do at all. _It's a fine, lovely night_, he tried again, breathing deeply of the ocotillo scented desert air, filling his eyes with the glittering heavens. Above the darker, distant silhouettes of the Santa Catalina Mountains, a line of three stars shone bright.

"That's Orion," Mal's voice echoed in his memory, the remembered velvet tones chafing the open wound in his heart like rawhide.

"O'Ryan? Was he Irish?" A flash flood of memory overtook the dry riverbed of his mind.

"Dom," Mal chided him, laughter in her voice. "Orion was a Greek demigod who became the lover of the goddess Artemis," she explained, rolling to face him on the flannel blanket they shared.

"Well then. I guess he was almost as lucky as me," Cobb replied, copying her action so that they faced each other, noses almost touching.

Mal made no spoken reply to his gallantry, but a glow like a Sonoran sunset filled her eyes, virtually lighting the air around them. "When Orion died, Artemis put him up in the sky, where he could shine bright and strong, remembered for eternity."

"I would do that and more for you," he told her, passion softening his voice to the whisper of a desert wind.

"More?" she questioned even more softly, a hand moving to rest on the stubble on his cheek.

"I'd do everything in my power to protect you - so that I'd never need to put you in the stars." He spoke with such conviction that the words rang true, even to himself.

"But you didn't," Mal whispered.

"What?"

"You didn't protect me," she said more loudly, accusation raising the pitch of her voice and darkening her lovely wide eyes. "You got me killed."

"No, Mal, I-" Grief and guilt choked his voice like sharp grained sand. "I couldn't-"

"You promised me!" she shouted, and suddenly they were standing, facing each other in a barren, starless waste, bleaker than Death Valley. "You promised to protect me and our children. You promised we'd be together forever, but you lied!" Her Verney-Carron hunting rifle was in her hands, sleek and lethal as a viper. "Your fault," she said softly, flatly, leveling her gun at him.

"Yes," he agreed, voice harsher than gravel. He couldn't say anything else. _Why doesn't she shoot_? It would be so much easier - so much better if she just pulled the trigger.

And yet she just stood there, hurt and reproach filling her eyes and shredding Cobb's heart more thoroughly, more painfully, than any shot from her gun could do.

_Shoot me_... The words hovered, unspoken, on his tongue as the sight of his beautiful, dead wife swam in his vision, tears blurring her image like heat haze.

"Cobb," she said, voice strangely deep and close to his ear. "Cobb!" The world shook and Mal disappeared from before him.

"Mal!" Cobb shouted, jerking upright and reaching a desperate hand toward his absent wife only to singe it in the dancing flames of the fire.

"Easy, Cobb." It had been Arthur's voice - softer now, but tone serious as ever - calling to him. And it had been Arthur's hand that had shaken him back to reality. That slim, strong hand was now pushing Cobb's down in a steady, firm, but not overbearing grip - the same as he used on his horse when it was skittish. "Show me the damage," he commanded in that same even tone.

"Just lightly toasted," Cobb tried to joke. The quaver and roughness in his voice gave the lie to his sorry attempt.

Arthur took his hand without comment and angled it toward the light of the fire, examining it through narrowed eyes. The point rider's fair, slim fingers stood out in contrast to his companion's larger, weathered digits. _Mal always teased him about his prissy gloves and pretty hands_.

Cobb had no time to smile at the recollection as loss again needled his heart like the blades of a yucca plant. His vision blurred and wavered and he jerked his hand back before his tremor could communicate to Arthur. "Nothing burnt, see." His voice was the harsh rasp of flint.

"A few hairs," was the brief reply. Arthur was silent then, though Cobb could feel the unobtrusive weight of his gaze like the brush of smoke on his face. The silence stretched on and Cobb chanced meeting that gaze. There was no question in those eyes (but then, Arthur'd heard Cobb's waking cry) nor was there any pity. There was just reflected firelight and patience as the younger man waited for his one-time leader to compose himself. "The fire's awfully smoky tonight," he said finally, giving Cobb an excuse. "What have you been doing to it?" He turned his head to look critically at the fire.

"What wood I could still find is still damp from that recent rainstorm," the older man replied honestly enough. "It's been all I could do to keep it burning until you got back. You're late, Arthur," he accused, the remaining pain of his dream mixing with his remembered worry to give an axe-edge to his words.

It didn't seem to cut Arthur. "I ran into Trouble," he replied evenly, "with a capital 'E.'"

"E?"

"Eames. He was there." His frown deepened and his tone was flatter than Cobb had ever heard it before. "He's after the bounty on you."

"What?" His confusion wouldn't allow any further response just then, as images of shared campfires, shared battles, and shared jokes clashed with Arthur's words in a short, brutal skirmish. "After me?" It was another blow. It might hurt less than the death of his wife, his separation from his children, and the loss of the life he knew, but it still dazed him. "But…"

"He's not your friend, Cobb!" The unexpectedly sharp words cut through Cobb's confusion. He felt surprise widen his eyes as he refocused them on his companion. "He's not anyone's friend." The words were softer, but they still had an edge that Cobb couldn't place. Self-pity was momentarily forgotten.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked, taking more careful stock of Arthur's appearance, though he found it even harder to believe, for a variety of reasons, that Eames might hurt the point man. There was no stain or dampness of blood on his clothes, but some dark, illusive emotion had left its tracks in Arthur's eyes along with signs of tiredness.

"He couldn— " The words cut off like the chirp of a cricket crushed underfoot. "I'm fine," the point rider snapped finally. Cobb wanted to argue with him, but before he could find words, Arthur loosed a long, loud sigh and shook himself. "I'm fine," he repeated more softly, almost sounding like himself, "but I didn't get any supplies and we're going to need to leave here before dawn." Cobb squinted at him quizzically. "No false trail is going to fool Eames for long. If at all. I'd say we should make the most of the moonlight and leave now, but… you need some sleep."

"I can't sleep!" It was Cobb's turn to snap reflexively, words lashing out like a whip. "Besides," he countered after a deep breath, "you're the one who's been in the saddle all day and half the night. You rest, I'll keep watch."

"You haven't slept properly in days, Cobb." That was true, but— "And don't say you were sleeping just now. You can't call that rest."

"I'll be fine," Cobb voiced the words that were the closest to truth.

"Cobb." Arthur gripped his shoulders and looked hard into his eyes. "You need rest," he repeated. "And we need to plan."

"I can't." He tried to match the point man's flatness.

"You _won't_."

"Goddamn it, I can't!" Cobb slapped Arthur's hands away from him as he jumped up. "I can't sleep!" Every time he closed his eyes, Mal was there. "I can't plan!" His own guilt would stare at him out of her eyes. "I can't even tend this goddamned fire!" He waved an arm in the direction of the small blaze and kicked savagely at the ground next to it, sending a shower of dirt to half smother it. "_Mal won't let me_!" The words echoed back to him from the rocks around them, startling him with their unwonted intensity. _I didn't mean to say that… _It was a truth that shouldn't have been put in words and it hung oppressively in the desert air around them, stifling them both as much as the dirt had the fire.

"Cobb… I… It…" Arthur drew in a long, shaky breath and Cobb heard the faint jingle of his spurs as the other man rose to his feet. He felt a tentative hand hovering near his shoulder. "It wasn't your—"

"What?" The question came out short and harsh like the bark of a coyote. "It wasn't my fault?" Cobb whipped around and gripped the lapels of Arthur's waistcoat. "Horseshit! My—" The rest of the words choked him. _My dream killed her. _His hands clenched tighter and he stared at his whitening knuckles.

"Cobb."

"No!" He didn't want to hear it.

"Dom!" The rare use of his name startled him into meeting Arthur's gaze again. "You're wrinkling my vest."

_What? _"I… I'm _wrinkling your vest_?"

"Yes. I'd appreciate it if you'd stop," Arthur said coolly, expression as characteristically impassive as ever.

"Ha!" Cobb let loose another coyote bark, this time a sorry parody of a laugh, and released Arthur's clothing. "Ahahaha…" He could hear the hysterical edge in his own voice as he dropped down to the desert sand and laughed until he was out of breath. It didn't take long after his previous outburst.

"You finished?" He looked up to find Arthur furiously smoothing the lapels of his vest, an aggrieved frown twisting his mouth. Cobb couldn't help another, almost genuine, laugh at the sight. Nor again at the sharp glare that earned him. "If you _are_, then you can saddle up and also finish putting out that fire."

"Hm?"

"You've already half put it out. You may as well finish the job after you saddle up." Cobb could only gaze questioningly up at his companion, the emotional turmoil of the last few minutes – and weeks of exhaustion – numbing his brain. "We're riding out," Arthur explained.

"We are, are we?" Slowly his tired mind worked its way to a response. "And just where are we riding to?"

"You tell me," the point man answered briefly, holding a hand out to help Cobb to his feet. He took it and was pulled to his feet with surprising strength. "Where're we riding, Cobb?" Arthur asked, as he had so many times before when they rode out on jobs.

Perhaps it was that familiarity, that tiny bit of normality, that enabled Cobb to answer. "Tucson," he said, eyes moving back to the indistinct shape of the mountains to the southwest. Orion was no longer visible above them.

"Is that a good idea?" Arthur questioned, though there seemed to be no disagreement in his voice or in his actions as he started painstakingly obliterating the signs of their camp.

"Big town. Lots of people."

"More bounty hunters?" Arthur countered.

"Tucson's supposed to be civilized: cobbled streets and everything. Even if there were, stone streets and large crowds are good for throwing off a tracker."

"Pinkertons?"

Cobb felt a pang, distant this time, at the name of their former employers. "I don't think they'll be a problem." Most of the Pinkerton officers in this neck of the woods knew Cobb. Surely they wouldn't believe the newspapers… He sighed. "We can avoid them – we know their haunts."

"Well…"

"_Baths_, Arthur."

"I… _suppose_ a bath would do _you_ some good," Arthur replied after a moment, the tiniest hint of a smile curving his mouth. "The bounty hunters could track you by _scent_ right now."

In spite of everything, Cobb felt an answering smile pull at the corners of his own mouth. "That settles it then." He walked over to where he'd picketed his horse and picked up his saddle blanket. "Tomorrow, Tucson," he declared as he threw it over the back of his sorrel mare.

"And then?"

"We'll decide from there."

* * *

I was planning to just have fun with this fic and not worry too much about details...  
Yeah, that never works for me. I find myself Googling everything from French gunmakers and the history of Tucson to the position of Orion in the sky and the flowering of the ocotillo...  
So this is set sometime around March (so that the ocotillo might be blooming and Orion might be visible in the direction I want) and probably sometime around 1880...  
If you don't know what a Pinkerton is, please look up "Pinkerton National Detective Agency." Or watch the movie "3:10 to Yuma."


End file.
